


Aftermath

by Severina



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Community: tamingthemuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2013-01-27
Packaged: 2017-11-27 01:21:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/656458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daryl deals with the aftermath of finding Sophia in the barn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's tamingthemuse community, for the prompt "kiln"
> 
> * * *

The earth is still moist where it's been freshly overturned, the simple wooden cross casting a long narrow shadow on the uneven ground. 

Daryl stops at the foot of the grave. Casts a wary glance over his shoulder, but the rest of the camp is still deep in slumber. His own tent is barely a smudged impression on the distant landscape, and he considers hightailing it back there, digging out the fifth of scotch that he's had hidden in the side pocket of the bike for the last several months. Drown himself in blessed oblivion, forget that the dead ever learned how to rise and walk, that he is one of a handful of survivors struggling to carry on. Forget that there ever was a little girl with straw-coloured hair named Sophia.

He swipes a finger over his chin, scrubs at the overgrown hairs. Pretends that he doesn't feel the way his hand is shaking, because he's had so much experience in pretending in his life that it is now second nature. Breathes in, a deep lungful that carries with it the scent of the wildflowers in the field, the pungent odor of the new earth, the rotting stench of the walkers that never truly goes away, not even here on the relative safety of the farm. Only when he's sure that he's steady does he squat next to the grave and start to dig.

The soil gives easily beneath his fingers, crumbling into smaller clods as he pushes his hands beneath the surface. It grinds into the lines in his palms, catches under his cuticles and beneath his nails. When he's done he knows he should detour to the old water pump, scrub them clean. Knows that he'll probably just head to the woods, tell himself he's looking for some wild game. Because he can pretend that, too.

When the hole is big enough, he reaches behind him for the doll.

It's a ratty old thing, now; smeared with grime and blood from his fall in the creek, mired with the muck from the riverbed. Used to belong to one of the Morales kids. He'd heard Sophia remark more than once to her mother that she was too old for dolls, but she'd held onto that thing like it was a lifeline, a talisman against all that was monstrous in the world.

He hopes she had it until the end. He knows she needs to have it now.

The soft earth patters on the doll's tattered dress, quickly covers the button eyes. He fills in the hole carefully, reverently; smoothes the dirt back into place. It feels like he should say something, even though he's there alone, with only the mourned dead for company. But he doesn't have the words. He can only hope one little girl knows how much she's missed.

He scrubs his wrist over his eyes, squints into the brightness of the early morning sunshine before rising to his feet.

Before this, his heart had been hardened for a long damn time. Should've just let it stay that way.


End file.
